that Santa Sofia? " " Is that the Golden Horn? "
So Nancy asked, when Minta took her hand,
" What is it that she wants? Is it that? " And
what was that? Here and there emerged from
the mist (as Nancy looked down upon life spread
beneath her) a pinnacle, a dome; prominent
things, without names. But when Minta dropped
her hand, as she did when they ran down the hill-
side, all that, the dome, the pinnacle, whatever
it was that had protruded through the mist, sank
down into it and disappeared.
Minta, Andrew observed, was rather a good
walker. She wore more sensible clothes than most
women. She wore very short skirts and black
knickerbockers. She would jump straight into
a stream and flounder across. He liked her rash-
ness, but he saw that it would not do—she would
kill herself in some idiotic way one of these days.
She seemed to be afraid of nothing—except bulls.
At the mere sight of a bull in a field she would
throw up her arms and fly screaming, which was
the very thing to enrage a bull of course. But she
did not mind owning up to it in the least; one
must admit that. She knew she was an awful
coward about bulls, she said. She thought she
must have been tossed in her perambulator when
she was a baby. She didn't seem to mind what
she said or did. Suddenly now she pitched down